


don't belong to no city

by mildlyobsessive



Series: summer days (drifting away) [3]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Existentialism, Gen, Help, High School, What else is new, im a mess, it literally explains why in the thing so, its literally only been a week, not my best just so you know, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so he stares at the people in class and thinks about how, in twenty years, they'll be nothing but stories to tell to the children he doesn't want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't belong to no city

**Author's Note:**

> VENT FIC FUN

And maybe everything in him, all the prose and metaphors that leak like pus whenever they please, have simply been replaced. Maybe that's why all he can persuade his hand to scribble are facts about Italian city-states or when to flip signs in inequalities.

Maybe that's why the words are so reluctant to come, because they know they'll just be stuffed in a thesis statement or research paper. Maybe they just know they'll be lies, or half-truths, or something he doesn't care about. They'll know they're not authentic. 

He's so tired now. His eyes are always weighted down with fatigue and due dates. His throat is constantly singed from choir, notes igniting little sparks that send up tiny little swirls of music. He is a bonfire, and sooner than later he will be out of wood.

And when that happens, the flames will consume whatever they can find. Which is usually him.

He knows how this goes.

He can only blame himself. He scheduled the classes, signed up for the clubs. All to be able to run far and fast from here as soon as he could. 

So many people run. They all end up coming back.

Back to cornfields and forests, back to potholes and cracked sidewalks. 

He loves Ohio, because it is safe and it is home, and he thinks that still counts for _something_ , but Ohio is small and simple, and he idealizes what is anything but.

He needs to run, and he needs to do it with enough scholarship money to ensure that coming back would be an option rather than a necessity.

And so he drags himself out of bed in the morning and stares at the people in class and thinks about how, in twenty years, they'll be nothing but stories to tell to the children he doesn't want. And how he'll get a text someday (or a notification or whatever the fuck they'll be using to communicate in the future) telling him that one of them have died. He looks around and thinks about who will go first and whether it'll be him. It may very well be him. 

It might not even be that far off. Running is just Plan A. Plan B is a bit more . . . permanent.

He looks at Josh and hopes he'll be more than amother obituary for him to read. And then he does his homework. Because he has to. Because it's a key to a door that's always seemed to be open to everyone but him.

173 days.


End file.
